Kiran

Zamora was a city that had learned to keep its secrets underground.
Above the street-level, the towers of the Zamoran aristocracy pierced the sky like admonishing fingers - slender, lacquered things decorated with frescoes of gods both old and older, their windows aglow with the amber light of wealth. Merchants grew fat in the bazaars. Courtesans leaned from silk-draped balconies. Silk and spice and coin moved through the city's veins like blood through a healthy body, and Zamora smiled its cosmopolitan smile at the world and declared itself civilized.
Below the streets, however, the city kept a different face entirely.
Zamora was old. Older than its current dynasty. Older than the temples that crowded its acropolis. Older, the scholars whispered, than the written record of any civilization that had yet risen and fallen in the known world. The city had been built atop the ruins of previous cities, layer upon layer, the way a new skin of paint is slapped over a rotting wall. Those lower levels - the sewers that were not merely sewers, the tunnels that ran deeper than any sanitation engineer had planned - those were the city's true history, and Zamora was not eager to have it read.
It was into this subterranean history that a young thief from the northern wilderness would fall, on a night of blood and bad luck, and discover that some secrets have teeth.
His name was Kiran. He was nineteen years old. He had been in Zamora for exactly three weeks, and he was already running for his life.